Blood
by TotallyGetsSpock
Summary: England is furious that France abandoned his nation during World War II and wants to make sure that France pays for his actions, even though no scar will be deep enough to take away his own pain. America, of course, thinks that the Marshall Plan is enough and has no clue what's actually going on. Warning: this scared my moirail (a.k.a. "old married couple best friend")


"You've fucked with the wrong country."

France woke to the sound of England's enraged voice, echoing through the cavernous concrete of his basement. His eyes stuck together slightly as he awoke from his drugged sleep and he blinks several times, moving to rub the sleep out of his eyes, grunting with effort as he pulls the chain anchoring him to the ceiling.

"You left me to die."

England rips France's shirt open, allowing the buttons to fly haphazardly around the room. He grasps France's nipples, twisting with all of the might in his battered frame.

"You abandoned me!"

France whimpers, terrified at the look in his former ally's eyes- the desire to rip him to shreds evident to him, gasping as he notices the wide variety of torture implements among England's magical supplies.

"Angleterre, no, my boss, he-"

England cracks the whip that had been lying on the table only moments ago then allows the cat-of-nine-tails to tear at France's torso.

"Save it. Traitors like you burn in hell."

Blood and torn flesh stuck to the whip which England then threw onto the floor as if it were a toy that no longer amused him.

"Please, stop! I had no choice! I did everything I could but he wouldn't-"

England draws his old sword, placing it at France's throat.

"Understand the phrase silent as the grave or I will MAKE you so! DO you understand, frog?"

"Get ze hell off me, English bastard!"

France slams his foot into England's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and struggles vigorously against his restraints, rubbing the outer layers of skin off of his wrist in the process.

England, panting heavily, fell to one knee, gasping for air, choking back tears. "You don't understand what you did to me, do you?" He puts his weight on his sword as he pushes himself upwards. "You drove me to this." He methodically unbuttons his shirt, showing white bandages mottled with burgundy blood and bruises at various stages of healing covering his entire abdomen.

"Germany almost killed me. I didn't give in. Every one of these scars is your fault! Your weakness led me to suffer more than I can even express! My citizens are suffering and still dying from the wounds they so bravely earned in battle! My cities have burned and London..." The fire in England's eyes returns. "But now, I can make you pay for everything you failed to prevent, old friend."

England unsheathes his sword once more and cuts away France's trousers, slashing mercilessly at the newly-exposed skin of his thighs, inching moment by moment, closer and closer to his vital regions.

"Please! Stop! I'll do anything, just stop!"

"That's what I told Germany. He didn't listen."

England unbuckles his belt, unzipping his own trousers and pulling out his erect penis.

"No! England, stop!"

England ignores France's pleas and shoves into him, looking intently into his eyes as he puts as much force into every thrust until he feels his thrusts become easier with the lubrication of France's blood, relishing the squelching sound and ejactulating into his former ally's rectum.

"You feel that?"

France sobs and nods minutely.

"Then why didn't you SAY so?"

England pulls France's head up by his languidly hanging locks.

"I thought you were going to beg and plead like the honorless coward you are?"

England throws his sword into the corner, ignoring the clattering of the blade as he discards it, sauntering away from France.

France relaxes, believing that for one moment he will be granted a reprieve. Instead he feels himself rising further towards the ceiling as England returns with weights jangling on his arms, which he then attaches to his ankles. He screams in agony as he feels his wrists and shoulders dislocate.

"I think I'll just leave you hanging for now. Hm but I wouldn't want my dearest ally's wounds to become infected, now would I?"

France looks down at his wounds and the pooling blood beneath him, panicking as grey tinges the edges of his vision.

England returns with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

France freezes in fear.

"Angleterre..."

England proceeds to pour the hydrogen peroxide into some of France's wounds.

"A modern disinfectant for a modern nation!"

"ANGLETERRE, STOP! I'M SORRY!"

"Oh, what's that, then? Too modern? Hm. Perhaps I should use something a little more old-fashioned!"

England rubs salt into the wounds on France's thighs, grabbing France's scrotum and twisting on the way up.

"FUCKING STOP!"

France kicks with the last strength he has but is stopped short by the weights on his ankles. He grits his teeth in anger and pulls anyway, only succeeding in spraining his ankles in the process. He then tugs at his wrists, fighting with each tendril of strength within himself to escape, finally pulling his wrists out of the restraints and collapsing on the floor, exhausted.

England stops, stunned.

"What...what have I done?"

He rushes to France's side just as he hears the basement door creak open.

"Yo! England! Ya here?"

"Oh God, it's America..."

He starts shaking as sobs wrack his small frame.

"Hey, England, it's okay. Everything will be alright. France will be okay."

America embraces England and pulls him up to cradle him as if he were a baby, carrying him to his room, then racing back to France's fallen form.

"Hey, France, you okay? What happened to you?"

France failed to respond.

"Fuck. We gotta get you to a hospital."

America opens his phone, dialing 911. He panics when he hears no response until he realizes that he's in England's house and dials 999. Then he remembers that the things he's remembering haven't happened yet and there's no one to call. He gathers France into his arms, wraps him in his bomber jacket, and bundles him into the car, getting him to a hospital as fast as he can.

"Ang...leterre"

"You wakin' up, bud? How'd this happen, anyway?"

"Angleterre."

"You wanna see him or something?"

"Non."

"Wait. He did this to you!?"

"Oui."

Silence fell in the car.

"Où est le Canada?"

Blood dripped from France's body onto America's car seats and into America's coat.

"Who?"

France clenches his eyes shut and waits to arrive at the hospital.

England wakes from his brief slumber and stretches out, then pads his way to the bathroom to use the loo. He gives himself a cursory glance in the mirror and stops dead in his tracks.

"Where is this blood from?"

His heart races as a few memories come flooding back.

"WHAT HAVE I DONE!? AMERICA? AMERICA, WHERE ARE YOU?"

He calls out for help, realizing what he has done, then staggers his way to the basement, cursing his shaking legs as he stumbles down the stairs, only to find that France has disappeared.

"France?"

England despairs and weeps over what he has done, curling into the fetal position and hugging himself. As his tears slow but the sobs still constrict his breathing, he gazes about the room for any means of relief, finding a small dagger lying on the table.

He composes himself, wipes the tears from his eyes, and caresses the hilt of the dagger as if it were a lover's hand, curling his fingers to hold it firmly.

_I can atone for what I have done. _

He places both hands on the hilt of the dagger and plunges it into his heart.


End file.
